


Season's Greetings (and a merry fuckmas to you too, asshole)

by manicr



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas hatred, Multi, Profanity, Sadism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manicr/pseuds/manicr
Summary: It’s the season and Bullseye has a job, everybody just keeps getting in the way.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: R for violence, profanity, sadism, and hating Chrismas.

_...Taskmaster hires Bullseye._

In the distance Mariah Carey’s _All I Want for Christmas is You_ played as Bullseye garotted the fat man in the Santa suit next to the dumpsters in the alley behind the mall. Taskmaster sighed and tried once more to pitch the job to the notorious assassin, all while ignoring the far too excited face Bullseye was making as the mall Santa choked and bled. 

“It’s at least more profitable than whatever you’re getting killing Santas, Bullseye. More challenge too and much, _much_ , better for your rep. You’ve been out of the game **a lot** , man. I’m practically doing you a **favor** here.” 

He was happy for his mask when the hapless victim Bullseye was toying with pissed his pants, making Bullseye finally drop him with a disturbing little giggle and then proceeded to stomp his face in with sickening crunches. On his medication or not, Bullseye wasn’t sane.

“I’m doing this on my **own** dime, Tasky. A public service, if you will.” Bullseye wiped the garotte off on the red velvet suit before pocketing it. “I mean, it’s **November**. It ain’t right.”

“Then make some money with me. It’s a nice corporate hit; take out the boss man in his fancy home with his advanced security system and army of pumped-up bodyguards. This asshole actual employed _Anvil_ to watch his damn back, and they are actually good as private contractors go. I think a trained a few key personnel there.” 

“Boring. I can kill assholes like that a mile away.”

“Not this one. He’s into tech and is not just a trumped up Stark Wannabe either, he’s a military defense contractor. You won’t snipe him that easy. I’ll need your talents, sure, but I’ll need you there in person and ready to get into tight spaces.” Taskmaster could guess what Bullseye was to say and raised his hand before he could be interrupted. “I’m **not** involving Deadpool in this; he’s in one of his _I’m a Hero_ phases again.” That he had O’Grady working with him already wasn’t anything Bullseye needed to know.

“Ugh. It’s such a waste,” Bullseye whined and lit a cigarette. “But still, still ain’t sounding like anything that would need or challenge my particular skill set.” He took a drag and cocked his head curiously; Taskmaster tried to go at this another way. Bullseye was vain and egomaniacal. 

“It is since I need **absolute precision**. Our target has equipped professionals with the latest defensive and protective gear there is, off-market stuff that he’s developed with the billions he makes off retail and slave-wages. I need a bonafide killer who can exploit the slightest crack in their armor while dealing with drone operated kill bots and unpredictable ricochets. Wilson would _survive_ all that, but he wouldn’t be much help. **You** on the other hand, you’d clean house. Like **magic**.” 

“Sounds a little more interesting. What’s the paycheck?”

“Ten mil each. And whatever we wanna take from the target. It’s right up your alley, Bulls. It’ll put you back on the map, get you on your feet, grease the wheels – all of that stuff. No more of…,” he paused and looked at the bloody mess at Bullsye’s feet, the dingy alley and stinking dumpsters, “ _this_.”

Bullseye looked around too, mimicking his gesture, but didn’t seem to find anything amiss with the picture he was painting. “Who’s the mark?”

“Ben Johnson of Access Corp. Timeline, before Christmas. Client wants to tank the shares and send the company into disarray for the shopping season as well as to cut the military contract he’s holding. It also seems to be personal. So some of your _particular flair_ will be appreciated by the client.” Always a good hook on Bullseye, let him be messy and artistic with his hits, or so Taskmaster hoped. 

It was never easy to maneuver Bullseye even when you’ve gotten him to move in the direction you wanted. The assassin came with a warning label and a penchant for chaos, but that was **exactly** what he needed for this job. More so than he was telling Bullseye. The assassin really didn’t **need** to know. 

Taskmaster waited, hearing _Sleigh Ride_ play from inside, face tense behind the skull mask at Bullseye’s very much theatric thoughtfulness. He let out a relieved breath as Bullseye burst into one of his signature toothy grins and declared:

“I’m in. When do we **start**?”


	2. Queens

_…Taskmaster already regrets hiring Bullseye._

The first snow had long since fallen, earlier this year than usual, and as expected, it came with the annual issues of subway cancellations, unplowed roads, and slip and falls in the City. Even the caped crusaders of New York were less likely to be seen on the streets and skies as it continued to pour down to the tune of _Let it Snow._ It was a time made for people like him to slip under the radar and get shit done.

As he stood with his spiked hot chocolate, Taskmaster wasn’t surprised to see Spider-Man, now in a knitted red and blue scarf and snug cap, swing past not far from his Queens apartment, clocking him as he did on his phone. At least twice a day, usually on a pretty even schedule. It wouldn’t be hard to avoid the Webslinger. Spider-Man didn’t _really_ look into anything unless civilians complained or got hurt.

Taskmaster made a **big** point of being the nicest neighbor possible for this very reason, he helped old ladies with their bags and put up Christmas lights even despite Bullseye’s efforts to tear them down.

He could certainly have chosen another place, but each borough had its heroes and it was at times useful to have one under clear surveillance. Queens just had the least violent one and the one who wasn’t tapped into what was happening in the criminal underground. Happily enough, he knew that the Black Cat was again in one of her offseasons with the Spider, so he’d be getting no intel from that front. And other heroes seldom interfered in the Spider’s turf in Queens even if he shared Midtown with a few. All he needed to do was to keep his dirty business indoors and elsewhere. 

He had argued **extensively** with Bullseye about this, there was no way he’d set up shop in the City, especially the Kitchen, and he wouldn’t tolerate any killing anywhere near him. Taskmaster wasn’t going to court the attention of Punisher or Daredevil; those two were dangerous to get involved with especially when he was doing the hit with **Bullseye**. He knew about the middling beef with Spider-Man, but it wasn’t anything as _psychotically obsessive_ as Bullseye’s thing for the aforementioned vigilantes. 

Now it was just to keep the assassin on track and focused without picking fights with any superheroes or vigilantes. It had gone fine the first week with the extensive surveillance and planning needed, but now well into December, it was starting to get more difficult.

An unexpected, though in hindsight predictable, issue had been the utter loathing Bullseye had for Christmas and the season in general. It wasn’t the more common version of just outright ignoring the festivities, which Taskmaster himself mostly did, but the virulent and expressive hatred of an obsessive nutjob. 

It wasn’t just murdering Santas with Christmas decorations and vandalizing Christmas displays, it was Bullseye whining about it constantly. If it wasn’t the holidays, it was the cold and the snow. Bullseye was always too cold and bored by everything when he wasn’t allowed to just murder everyone who annoyed him. Bullseye was making _Shocker_ seem like a stoic and Boomerang mature by comparison. It was frankly making Taskmaster want to kick Bullseye off the job. If only the plan didn’t hinge on him. 

Sighing, Taskmaster texted Black Ant on a secure VPN bounced line for a progress report. He couldn’t wait for this job to be over.

**SpcUpUrLif:** status

 **BBA69:** got full access to Access. Got myself a free prime account on the bosses credit and a waterbed }XD 

**SpcUpUrLif:** exit strategy in place?

 **BBA69:** nearly. Tho why bother? I coudda killed the target like last week. I’m tired of living of Karen’s lunch. iÍt’s KALE and vegan. She thinks its Mark in accounting :PPP

 **SpcUpUrLif:** i’m not arguing about this again. just do it. client wants it like this.

SpcUpUrLif: besides money. can’t hide all that cash in your prime account.

 **BBA69:** truth bro. Gimme a few days then, gotta go slow to hide the trail

 **BBA69:** hows the resident Grinch psycho? Still making darts outta glass for Santa?

 **SpcUpUrLif:** out doing his part, talking to everyone how he’s gonna do the hit of the century. best scapegoat ever.

 **BBA69:** Small blessings. GTG Nancy Tightpants is clocking in and she’s having an affair with Mark and it’s a real porno up in here

 **SpcUpUrLif:** you’re disgusting

 **BBA69:** gotta get my kicks somehow ;)

**User has logged out  
**

Taskmaster pocketed his phone and sipped more of his chocolate, mind churning on getting everything right since shit would go really bad if it didn’t, pissing off both the client and Bullseye. He didn’t know who scared him more, but he was determined to make this job run without a hitch. He’d just have to manage until then. 

Maybe he’d call Outlaw, have a boozy night and good fucking. She was out with Domino, and she deserved that, but hey, maybe they were into a threesome. He snorted to himself, thinking it unlikely, but Christmas miracles. Later perhaps, give them some nice presents, with all the money he’d make, and have a quiet evening, which would be an improvement on his current situation. 

Speaking of the devil, Bullseye stomped in through the door, bundled up into anonymity in more garments than an adult man should ever need. A gloved hand tugged down the scarf and revealed a grinning mouth and a bright red snotty nose. 

“Guess what? I hit Spidey with a snowball!”

 _Of course,_ he did. “I swear if you blow our cover–”

“Pfft. No chance, even if he saw me he’s too much of a weeb to hurt anyone over a snowball,” Bullseye said as he shed all his outer clothes on the floor in a wet pile, making Taskmaster bite his tongue to avoid yelling at him to pick his damn stuff up.

“Why are you here?” he asked instead. “We didn’t schedule anything for today, and I told you I’d contact you when your part started.”

“I’m bored and I talked to a few people at the Bar — guess what they told me?” Bullseye grinned, and Taskmaster honestly couldn’t tell if Bullseye meant talking as in actual conversations or torture induced confessions. He somehow doubted that Bullseye made much distinction between those two. It also begged the question of who would willingly talk to Bullseye? Never mind, he was already the idiot doing that.

“That you have beautiful eyes and can absolutely take their seat?” he remarked dryly, knowing to tread the fine line of joking with Bullseye and taking him seriously. 

“That too.” Another grin and a chuckle. “There’s gonna be a big charity gala and all the bigwigs will be there. We don’t need to wait around anymore, just kill him there, job done. And we can even make it look like he wasn’t the target since there will be so many rich assholes there! Shooting fish in a barrel and tons of guards for me to play with.”

Oh God, Bullseye thought he was being clever. Taskmaster could already feel a headache coming up, he set his cup on the table and tried not to raise his voice.

“No. We have a job. We do the job according to specifications. If you want to do another job while you wait, be my guest, as long as you don’t get caught.”

“Spoilsport,” Bullseye huffed, took and drank his chocolate before Taskmaster could snatch his cup back. “Can’t do anything fun with you and I hate just sitting around.”

Deep breath and resist the urge to punch the daylights out of Bullseye.

He needed to give Bullseye something to do before everything blew in their faces. “On the other hand, it might be good for you to go. Check out the target and his guards, do a little **gentle** poking to see their reactions, but nothing that’d make them beef their security up further. It’d need a delicate touch as well. I think I know exactly who to send with you to make that work and to finance it all.”

He was certain that he had Black Cat’s number and she **owed** him. She couldn’t afford to end up on his naughty list. Maybe get Domino on it too, she had a better hand on Bullseye’s brand of crazy. God knows the man needed a _babysitter_. 

Taskmaster told Bullseye the outline of a simple smash and grab with an added assassination of a few ‘bigwigs’ he knew had active bounties on them. The assassin ate it up like his marshmallows and hot chocolate. It would at least give him some time away from Bullseye; it wasn’t worth the headache to get a close eye on the marksman’s uncanny skills.

As Bullseye finally left, Taskmaster could see and hear a pile of snow land on him, out of nowhere, and an insincere ‘sorry’ call out from above as Bullseye burst into a litany of curses.

He wrote down the time on his phone, smiling.


	3. Midtown

_ …Bullseye becomes someone else’s problem _

  
  
  


Bullseye tugged at the collar of the rented suit, as he impatiently waited for the two women to get done dolling themselves up for the Charity Gala. Had it just been Domino, who knew how to clean up in a few minutes, they’d have been done by now, but Black Cat was a meticulous  _ groomer _ and she insisted on ‘fixing’ Dom’s make-up too and covering up her spot. 

“Girls, girls, you’re both beautiful as you are, so fucking shake a leg and get your asses in gear!” He hollered and kicked at the door, not caring if he scuffed the dress shoes he was wearing. 

“Lester, _ darling dear _ , shut your big fat mouth, okay?” Dom yelled back at him sweetly.

“Fuck you,  _ Neena _ ~” 

“Never doing  _ that  _ again,” was the fast retort, “we’re done in a minute, you fidgety yowling puss--”

“Oh please,  **both** of you stop yelling,” Cat interjected and opened the door, showing off what her primping had accomplished. It was a classic black dress with what looked like diamonds on the collar, her hair pulled up and her make-up drawing attention to both her lips and eyes. “So?” she asked and twirled.

“You done?” Bullseye sighed.

“Can’t a girl get a single compliment out of you?”

“Don’t expect him to show any interest unless you’re splattered in blood, Felicia,” Dom said, sidling next to her in a not quite matching black dress, pearls on her rather than jewels, her face seemingly devoid of her usual markings and unnatural whiteness. She at least had the sensibility to have a deep slit on her gown that would allow her to run.

“Huh, she made you look human,” Bullseye remarked, a little impressed by that rather than the fact that both women had dressed up to the nines and looked ready for a photoshoot. Black Cat threw her arms up and rolled her eyes, grumbling under her breath, making Domino laugh and pat her on the shoulder. 

“He’s a Philistine and doesn’t know to appreciate this. I, however, do _ , thank you _ . And you,  _ Lester _ , fuck you with a bazooka.”

“Blah, blah, you’re dressed and done so let’s get this show rolling,” Bullseye urged them and waved at them to move. “I hope you’re packing heat somewhere in all that.”

“Thigh holster and a nice .22 snugly between my legs.” Dom stuck out her tongue at him. “Besides, I’m lucky, she’s unlucky, and you’re magic. I think we’ll be just fine.” 

They moved toward the door, intercepting Taskmaster who paused to stare at them. “Ladies and gentlemen, your ride to the Museum Gala awaits,” Taskmaster announced as he reassembled himself, “the driver is one of mine, so don’t worry about him. Try  **not** to kill him, Bullseye.”

“Also, no killing anyone else than the target,” Black Cat added, making Bullseye scowl at her and start to interrupt before she just raised her voice, “I’m not having my reputation ruined by your trigger happy fingers nor getting wanted for murder. I’m a  _ thief _ , Bullseye. Show me that you have the skill to kill only when you  **need** to. Don’t make a mess.” She held a brave face, knowing not to show any weakness in front of him.

“I kill whomever I want, bitch, I’ll kill you too,” Bullseye growled.

“So you’re saying that you  **can’t** do it.”

“I can do whatever--”

Domino interrupted them both, “Oh clam it, girls. We need to hit the road.”

Somehow they actually managed the ride without coming to blows, and Black Cat walked them through the plan despite Bullseye’s mutterings and misgivings. The plan was simple: they got in with fake invites and IDs, courtesy of Taskmaster, and a bit of luck, staked out the targets, Domino and Bullseye would do the violence as Cat got the jewels and art. It would be simple.

  
  
  
  


Felicia sipped her champagne, eyeing the crowd while seemingly admiring a Degas, instinctively cataloging its security system as well as the quality of the brushwork. She had pointedly avoided lingering anywhere near the Cartwright Collection that was currently on display, nearly a billion dollars worth of diamonds. She’d had her sting on his gala planned for months, but Masters’ had gone and ruined it all with a phone call and the two idiots she had in tow. 

It wasn’t very charitable toward Domino, but the mercenary was no thief or grifter. She hit hard and fast, thinking with her powers and guns rather than her head, which was indeed a skill itself. But she and Bullseye cheapened what was supposed to have been a grift of world-class skill and audacity into a simple smash and grab. No finesse. No glamour. But what had she expected from a psycho like Bullseye and a thrill junkie like Domino?

She’d been a Kingpin of crime, a  _ Queen _ , for a hot minute, and  **now** she was strong-armed by mercs into dealing with their problems. Speaking of problems, Bullseye was a ticking time bomb, and the way he looked at her with those dead eyes told her everything she needed to know. He was easy to trigger and nigh impossible to steer even with her talents and assets. Domino  **was** necessary to keep him even slightly controlled and it wasn’t like that would last long either. 

She hoped that the two would be in place and not take action before the signal was given, the main speech by the host, and risk ruining everything even more. Her hopes weren’t set very high. It felt like her bad luck had come to bite her back.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” A man who seemingly had styled himself after Tony Stark told her, looking up at the Degas. She gave him a slight smile, keeping up appearances. 

“Did you know Degas was blind? He could never appreciate the beauty of his own art, which is a shame because all art is to be admired,” he continued and tried to give her a roguish grin, implying that she was also a beautiful piece of art to be admired. His attitude annoyed her.

“Degas wasn’t blind. He had a degenerative eye condition, his earlier  _ and  _ mature works, like this one from 1871, were made when he was fully capable of seeing what he did. In fact, he had a very particular eye for color and motion, leaving nothing to chance. He painted well into the 20th century,” she succinctly corrected him and sipped her champagne again. “Furthermore, he was an angry bigot who had little appreciation for anything.”

The man stammered something to regain his footing, but she ignored him, striding toward her next position, leaving him floundering where he was. She had better things to do than to flirt with idiots who wouldn’t deck her in diamonds or knew their Degas from their cheesy one-liners. She deserved better.

“It’s worth $32 million to $48 million, _ that’s  _ worth appreciating,” Bullseye remarked, having sidled in, and eaves-dropped on her. Felicia stiffed but otherwise avoided showing how much the assassin unnerved her. 

“I didn’t know you knew anything about art,” she commented drily. “We shouldn’t be seen anywhere near each other,” she added under her breath, eyes set on the parkette floor in the painting. Degas had done a good floor.

“I used to steal this stuff for a pretty penny. It got boring,” he remarked, standing next to her and looking at the painting. “Don’t fret about it. I know my job.”

“Then go do it,” she hissed and stalked away to talk to someone who wasn’t Bullseye. She couldn’t wait for this to be over, her crew was in position already -- dressed as security and a waiter, ready to smuggle the stolen haul out. She  _ really  _ deserved better than this, while Bullseye  _ deserved  _ all the bad luck he could possibly get. 

  
  
  


Bullseye grinned to himself as Black Cat escaped him with the sharp clip of her stilettos; he assumed she had an actual stiletto blade on her as well. It seemed like her taste. He knew she was good at what she did, a born thief, but he wasn’t amused at having to compromise his job for her sake.

He was there to kill. He gave a shit about Taskmaster’s restrictions, but it was also a matter of professionalism. Bullseye was no chump and he could have killed the target without breaking a sweat, but the client had stipulated conditions. He’d abide by them -- for now. 

He moved slowly, seemingly aimlessly browsing art and people, until he was in place by the balcony walkway above the hall; the mezzanine had been decked in art as well. He did see some pieces that were passable and worth the money, the expressionist modern exhibition a half-floor up was more to his tastes than the old masters a floor down. 

The String Quartet in the corner played Christmas tunes that floated over the conversations in the Grand Hall, reminding all these Fortune 500 fools of the season of giving. Primarily, they’d soon be giving their  _ lives  _ to them. The big speech was upcoming and the impromptu crew was ready in their positions. 

Dom and Cat were far from each other in order not to have their powers messing with each other. Bullseye was ready in the middle of it all to take out Laurence Abel - a conglomerate man with his fingers in every pie, including criminal ones - and Darryl Woods of the oil fortunes and lobbyist fame. They both had sizable bounties on them that he’d claimed, despite having dismissed the jobs earlier. They weren’t worth his skills, but he hoped that it was worth the mundanity to see how good Johnson’s men were. He’d take his  _ frustrations  _ out on the string quartet if they weren't. Their rendition of _ Carol of the Bells _ was already an offense in his books.

He retrieved the hidden rifle in a bag from beneath a seat in the corner of the mezzanine, right in a camera blind spot. He reassembled it quickly and noted with some satisfaction that it was a good piece. DVL-10 M2 was a light and maneuverable piece if a bit overkill in the limited space he was operating in. It’d do more than well enough. Hell, he could have done the job with a toothpick.

  
  
  


Neena could already feel the adrenaline rising, that rush she felt on a job, and on this one, she had no qualms. Her job was to distract the security guards, kill them if need be, and to divert attention for both Felicia and Bullseye to do their part. She was ready to dance. The speech was soon over, and she sidled into position, paying little mind to what was being said.  She kicked off her high heels, pulled out her gun, and set her sights on the chandelier. As the final toast rose, Neena took the shot, sending the glass monstrosity down. No one got hit,  _ sheer luck _ that, but panic ensued and she was prepared for it.

Before security had even noticed her she was drawing their attention by shooting a series of glass cases, luckily without harming the valuable content inside. The alarms went off and started blaring, more guards running in shortly. She emptied her clip and tossed the useless gun in the face of a guard. It was all noisy and splashy, just as wished, all eyes were on her and Neena  _ loved it _ .

Avoiding being grappled, she went low and swept the guard closest to her off his feet, sending him flying into his colleague. He dropped his gun and Neena caught it before it hit the floor. A full magazine by the feel of it and a reliable model. She spun back on her feet and ran up toward the Grand staircase, bare feet pattering on marble, a wide smile on her painted face. She was chased, of course, just as planned.

Neena ripped the necklace off her throat, tearing it and throwing it down the stairs with a clatter. She’d deliberately asked Felicia for something she didn’t care about with this in mind. Lucky for her, two of the guards after her tripped on the pearls and were sent down in a tumult of limbs and shouts.

Distraction accomplished, now it was up to Lester and Felicia to do their job - she couldn’t keep this up forever regardless of how lucky she was. 

  
  


In a smash and grab, speed was the key element. With a team, cooperation was also crucial, and Felicia had honed her crew into a well-oiled machine. Boris and Bruno were handling the exchange and the exit. In the chaos Neena had ensued, she ransacked the shattered cases and hid the items on guests. She tagged them with a dash of lipstick somewhere somewhat visible, they were evacuated without much of a search and the boys stole the items off them. In essence, it was a shell game but with contraband and unknowing ‘cups’. 

Where it got tricky was the artwork. Felicia hadn’t planned on taking any of the paintings but she’d stared at  _ that  _ Degas long enough to decide that she  _ would  _ take it. 48 million dollars, as Bullseye noted, was nothing to scoff at and she  _ liked  _ it. She refused to leave empty-handed. Of course, Taskmaster would get his cut, but Tony hadn’t haggled for anything major despite him having a fence lined up. She  _ might  _ even forgive him for saddling her with Domino and Bullseye.

Speaking off Bullseye, he had started his side of the job as Neena had run up the stairs, distracting the museum guards. The private bodyguards were still hovering near their clients, but their attention was inevitably drawn to Domino. Felicia tried not to watch as the slaughter began, the screaming being the major tipoff but used the ensuing panic to unfasten the Degas. She didn’t care to bypass the vibration detection on the cable but merely cut it free with the vibranium blade she had hidden in her hair. All alarms were already going off as it was. She stripped the frame in a minute, and rolled up the painting, only stripping the magnetic strip of it as her only precaution. 

Unluckily, she wasn’t left fully alone to do her thing as a security guard was approaching her, attention drawn away from the shooting by seeing her strip the frame off. “Hey--”

“Bye!” she countered and ran for it, refusing to relinquish her $750 Jimmy Choo heels, dress pulled up to her thighs. It wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t covert, but sometimes speed was all you needed. The Degas was hers, and as the panic made the other guests run, she joined the flow, exiting into the street and hitting the van with Bruno and Boris. 

“Neena here yet?” Felicia asked as she stepped in. 

Her answer was glass exploding out of the museum windows, screams, and Domino coming flying out. She  **should** have hit the pavement and crippled herself, but somehow Domino grabbed the vertical exhibition flag, gliding down it and  _ bouncing  _ off a canopy as the fabric ripped off the flag post, landing safely on her feet. It was criminal to be  **that** lucky, bless her freaky powers. 

Felicia stuck her head out and waved at her, Domino hurrying toward them. 

“You lost the shoes,” she noted with slightly put upon distress. “They were Prada!” 

“I have my limits, you know,” Domino retorted. “Got everything?” 

Boris gave her the thumbs up and a grin. “The Cartwright Collection is now ours.”

“Let’s go!” Felicia urged, unwilling to hang around until superheroes started showing up. 

“Bullseye’s still inside,” Neena interjected.

“I don’t care, he’s late, and we’re out.” Felicia countered, “Bruno, hit it!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hit the road.

  
  
  


Bullseye was doing his job. Woods was the first to die, a clean headshot as the chandelier dropped. He rested the DVL-10 on the balustrade, watching through the scope at the chaos that had ensued. Woods dropped before anyone even knew where to look, and Bullseye’s attention was already elsewhere before Woods’ champagne glass hit the floor. 

He killed a guard for good measure, one that was close to Johnson’s party just to see how they responded. Too slow for his taste, high end sure, but nothing extraordinary. It was a little puzzling how they didn’t try to move their client.

Meanwhile, Able wasn’t quite in position, his guards were hurdling him toward cover, and people kept on getting in the way. He could, of course, just kill them too, but he felt a resentful urge to prove Black Cat that he could stay focused on the job without excessive collateral. The guards didn’t count,  _ that  _ was a part of the job. He needed to see how Johnson’s men reacted. He waited and watched, steady as a rock and as still, the moment Able was in place he pulled the trigger. Straight in the heart. 

His targets were down, but the job wasn’t over. 

Bullseye found Johnson again, he eyed him and noted again that despite it all his detail seemed pretty lax given the situation. Going on a hunch, Bullseye set his aim on him, right between the eyes, and pulled the trigger one more time. The bullet ricocheted off Johnson and what seemed to be a forcefield, making Bullseye curse and discard the gun.  He didn’t bother with the stairs, jumping the balustrade, and landing heavily on the ground floor beneath. He wanted to try one more thing, he had the time, Neena was still drawing fire last time he saw her and moved in the direction of Johnson and his security detail. 

Bullseye stole a canape stick, just a tiny metal needle with a knob at the top, and threw it at Johnson, aiming for his shoulder, in case it worked. Again, it flew off him about a foot away from his actual body. A forcefield was the only explanation he had. This time, however, he drew the attention of the security detail who pulled their guns on him. 

Biting his tongue, wanting to kill them so bad, Bullseye withdrew. Most of the crowd had evacuated by now, even if it had barely been minutes since it all started, and he knew that time wasn’t on his side. Bullseye ran, he had a ride to catch. 

  
  


Back in the van, Neena threw herself at the side-door as a familiar figure ran into traffic in front of them. “Get in, you’re late!” She hollered out of the door and barely got out of the way as Bullseye threw himself inside, hitting the other side with a loud ‘thunk!”.

“Go go go!” He hollered as gunshots hit the van, as they speeded away. Neena pulled the door shut and let out a muffled laugh, which seemed to set off Lester who also started to chuckle madly.

“Don’t lose your cool, we’re not out of this yet, not until we’re off the road,” Felicia said from the front seat. “I want you two to be ready to give cover fire if we get cops or a superhero on our ass.”

“I’m too lucky for that,” Neena countered and stuck her tongue out, slightly out of breath still. She was still running high.

“Well, don’t count on it.”

“Ease up, kitty cat, it’s all good,” Bullseye chimed in, “We got what we wanted, right?”

“I’ll ease up when I’ve gotten rid of  _ you _ . I don’t need the kind of attention you attract.”

“ _ Bitch _ ,” Bullseye started, but Neena elbowed him in the ribs, diverting his attention. 

“Hey, you and me, drinks at the Bar? I can call Wade too,” Neena interjected and hoped that it would be enough. Luckily, it was as Lester gave her a grin and went into chatter about his last gig. Taskmaster better pay her back for this, baby-sitting Bullseye wasn’t what she’d signed up for. 

Tonight, she wanted to get drunk.


End file.
